The outback story: Part 1
It's probably been awhile since you've talked to me or hung out with me. You may have wondered why is this? I got a new job at the Outback. This is a really long story so only read it if you're bored or interested in becoming a busser.
I decided to work at Outback because I figured it would be good money, I’d get more hours than my old job and there would be some nice perks. Have you ever had a feeling in your stomach that said, “This is a good idea, you’re not going to regret this one bit. You’ll have a blast.”? Have you ever had that feeling only to be slapped in the face, bent over and stuck with a long shaft of humiliation? Working at Outback was a horrible decision that could have ruined my life.
The application for Outback is one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. A portion of it is mediocre algebra, which wouldn’t be bad but you had no calculator or scratch paper. I’m a man who is good with numbers and I find this difficult. It is a wonder how the dumb fucks, commonly referred to as “co-workers” passed this. How many dicks did they have to suck? Another thing I want to know is why would a busser need to do this? There’s no math involved in cleaning tables. It’s not like the hostesses, whom I fucking despise, say “You need to buss three tables, which are consecutive numbers when added up equal 36.” The next part of this test to become an Outbacker is a personality quiz. Essentially, they give you an adjective and on a scale of 1 through 5 you have to tell them how well it describes you. I give them credit because they’re a little tricky here. It read something like this:
How do these words describe you?
Kind
Hardworking
Leadership
Understanding
Homicidal
Trusting
After I took the test, they faxed it to the Outback headquarters in Tampa to get it scored. I don’t think they really did this, they probably just went to the back, recited the alphabet a couple of times and came back and told me I passed.
Thank the Lord, I am officially an employee of the Outback Steakhouse. My life is grand, right? No, amigo. The first day of work was lovely. They gave me an adorable purple shirt. When I wore it I resembled Barney, with tits. The concept of bussing is very easy. You see a dirty table, you make undirty. Simple, eh? You’re supposed to be given about 30 seconds to clean a table. This isn’t too bad, but I guess our hostesses mistake the number 30 for now. As soon as I’d get to a table they would bring people to the table which made me look like a shitty busser(I was but that’s besides the point). After experiencing the hostess’s impatience, I knew I had to bus faster. So after an hour or so, I was dripping with sweat. This was really bad when I introduced myself to the other servers and hostesses. I would have talked to the girls but it would have gone something like this: “So I know you’re an attractive girl and I want to hit on you, but it looks like I’ve been in a sauna for 5 hours and I smell like horse radish. What are you doing tonight, baby?”
So there's the first part. I'll probably finish it soon if everyone likes it.
I decided to work at Outback because I figured it would be good money, I’d get more hours than my old job and there would be some nice perks. Have you ever had a feeling in your stomach that said, “This is a good idea, you’re not going to regret this one bit. You’ll have a blast.”? Have you ever had that feeling only to be slapped in the face, bent over and stuck with a long shaft of humiliation? Working at Outback was a horrible decision that could have ruined my life.
The application for Outback is one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. A portion of it is mediocre algebra, which wouldn’t be bad but you had no calculator or scratch paper. I’m a man who is good with numbers and I find this difficult. It is a wonder how the dumb fucks, commonly referred to as “co-workers” passed this. How many dicks did they have to suck? Another thing I want to know is why would a busser need to do this? There’s no math involved in cleaning tables. It’s not like the hostesses, whom I fucking despise, say “You need to buss three tables, which are consecutive numbers when added up equal 36.” The next part of this test to become an Outbacker is a personality quiz. Essentially, they give you an adjective and on a scale of 1 through 5 you have to tell them how well it describes you. I give them credit because they’re a little tricky here. It read something like this:
How do these words describe you?
Kind
Hardworking
Leadership
Understanding
Homicidal
Trusting
After I took the test, they faxed it to the Outback headquarters in Tampa to get it scored. I don’t think they really did this, they probably just went to the back, recited the alphabet a couple of times and came back and told me I passed.
Thank the Lord, I am officially an employee of the Outback Steakhouse. My life is grand, right? No, amigo. The first day of work was lovely. They gave me an adorable purple shirt. When I wore it I resembled Barney, with tits. The concept of bussing is very easy. You see a dirty table, you make undirty. Simple, eh? You’re supposed to be given about 30 seconds to clean a table. This isn’t too bad, but I guess our hostesses mistake the number 30 for now. As soon as I’d get to a table they would bring people to the table which made me look like a shitty busser(I was but that’s besides the point). After experiencing the hostess’s impatience, I knew I had to bus faster. So after an hour or so, I was dripping with sweat. This was really bad when I introduced myself to the other servers and hostesses. I would have talked to the girls but it would have gone something like this: “So I know you’re an attractive girl and I want to hit on you, but it looks like I’ve been in a sauna for 5 hours and I smell like horse radish. What are you doing tonight, baby?”
So there's the first part. I'll probably finish it soon if everyone likes it.